Chapter 3

It was already hot, even so early in the morning, and any dew left on the grass was gone. The field had been cut two days ago, so most of the clippings were lost to the wind, along with the fresh cut smell. The sound of the mower was a distant hum around the front side of the school building, and light traffic on the road behind was nothing more than a gentle swish.

The marching band practice field was the enormous triangle between the road, the back entrance lanes, and the parking lot. Most bands were lucky if their school had enough flat space left after football, baseball, soccer, track--and anyone else who needed a field--to have any type of practice field at all. Some bands used a parking lot. At Hannibal, the practice field was big enough to orient a football field in almost any direction, with room to spare.

"Let's move it back a little more," said Sara Clark. She was standing toward the north end of the field, trying to imagine the lines already painted, and how it would look.

"What for?" said Joe Bailey.

"Yeah, it was fine in the middle last year," said Mike King. They were both seniors, both trombone players. In other words, they were both troublemakers and pranksters. And, if anything, reaching their senior year only served to polish their troublemaking and pranking skills to a mirror shine.

"Because last year the field was facing southwest, remember?" said Sara. "We have to move back because right now that whole back corner is kind of on a hill."

They took a few steps toward the north end. "You know," said Mike. "I'm not sure if I want the field to face this way."

"Yeah, it was way better last year," said Joe. Whatever one said, the other almost always agreed. "Sophomore year it sucked, though."

"And freshman year sucked too. Except I don't remember freshman year."

"Yeah, but it did suck."

"Are you guys still talking about the practice field?" asked Sara. "Or something else?"

"The field, of course."

"Yeah, what else would we be talking about?"

"It's anyone's guess," said Sara, rolling her eyes.

"So anyway," said Mike, "we've decided we don't like the first two year's fields. But we like last year's. Let's just put it back there again."

"Do you guys remember what the grass looked like by the end of the season?" said Sara. "I bet our lines are still worn in if you look close."

"Oh yeah," said Joe. "It did look pretty shitty."

"Hey," said Mike, "I bet if we moved the field, we could keep the grass in better shape." He said it as if he was thinking of it for the first time.

"Yeah," said Joe, playing along, with an exaggerated air of discovery. "You know, maybe we should rotate the field every year. Sara, that might be something to mention to Mr. W."

"Only tell him it was our idea," said Mike.

Sara laughed. "Okay, guys. Glad you agree." She looked around. "Is this good here?" she asked, standing on the spot she had already picked out.

"Yeah, looks fine."

"Hmm ... maybe a couple steps to the left ... just in case..."

"In case of what?" said Sara. She had a good idea what the answer would be.

"In case of yo mama!" Mike and Joe high fived.

Sara stood where she wanted the front sideline to meet the fifty. The guys each took one end of the string she spent most of last night measuring out; she hadn't been able to find the long measuring tape that was supposed to be kept with the orange yard markers. Every five yards along the string, she had made a heavy black mark with a sharpie. Now as the guys stretched the string out toward the end zones, it turned into a giant sideline ruler.

It should have been as easy task, but Sara had to keep calling out corrections that Mike and Joe kept misunderstanding on purpose.

"No, Joe ... go to your left!" shouted Sara. "No, not my left! Your left!"

"What?" shouted Joe. "You left? What did you leave?" He kept pulling the string in the wrong direction.

"She said go to my left!" shouted Mike from the opposite end. "So stop pulling!" He gave his end a tug, not any closer to being helpful than his friend.

"Guys!" Sara shouted, laughing. "Just shut up and stand still!"

"You heard her! Stand still!" Joe pulled.

"She was talking to you!" Mike pulled.

At last, they got the string into position and stayed still. It took at least a dozen warning to keep them in place, but Sara was finally able to pick up the paint can and walk toward Mike's end of the field. She popped off the cap, shook the paint, heard the little ball ping around inside.

"Stay still," said Sara, a preemptive strike as she saw Mike pretend to take a big step. "Or I'll paint your face."

"You would not," said Mike, looking scandalized.

"I would too, without a second thought." With a final shake, she bent down to start painting. At the first five yard mark, she left a short white stripe pointing toward the back of the field.

"You know, Sara," Mike said when she got to the ten yard mark, "I love watching you walk. Especially when you bend over like that."

"Uh huh."

"We should go on a date, just you and me. It'll be fabulous."

"Uh huh." Sara got to the fifteen.

"You know, I've been asking you out since freshman year." Mock hurt.

"And if I ever once thought you were serious, I might have said yes."

"Oh come on, when have I ever not been serious?"

Sara just snorted. and painted a stripe at the twenty.

"You know, you could be a little nicer about my feelings." Mock anger.

"Mike, your feelings are the last thing in the world I'd ever dream of hurting."

"Yeah, well..."

Sara looked back just before painting the twenty-five. "Well what?" She already knew the answer.

"Well ... Yo mama!" Mike's grin went from ear to ear.

Sara kept painting. Her finger hurt, so she switched hands. She switched back, then used her second finger. Then her thumb. The can was colder and lighter, but paint was still coming out. She switched to the other thumb, then back to the first finger again. Why was spray paint so hard to spray? Six of her fingertips were white.

"Hey, Sara," said Joe when she was close enough to hear.

"Yeah?"

"You know, I was thinking."

"About what?"

"Well, you and me have been friends for a while, right?"

"Since freshman year," said Sara. She knew what was coming next. They must have planned it ahead of time.

"Yeah..." said Joe, pretending to prepare his thoughts. "You know, you look even better as a drum major than you did as a flute player."

"I don't look any different." She painted the ten yard mark.

"No, no. You look ... more in charge. Must be all that new confidence. Confidence is sexy, you know."

"I'd heard that," she said, glancing up.

"So when are you and me gonna hook up?"

She painted the five. "Joe," she said, "don't you have a girlfriend?" She already knew the answer. "A cheerleader girlfriend?"

"Oh, I'm sure she'd understand. You know she's very supportive."

"I bet she is. I don't know how she puts up with you, honestly."

"Well, Sara. There's only one thing I have to say to you."

Sara sprayed the last bit of sideline and stood up. "I know," she smiled and whispered into his ear: "Yo mama." She kissed him on the cheek and turned away laughing. She really didn't have any idea what that line was supposed to mean, but it was their favorite.

"Ah, man!" shouted Joe, stomping. "She got me!"

"Hey, where's my kiss?" said Mike, jogging over. "How come he gets a kiss and I don't?"

Sara grabbed Mike's face and kissed his cheek too, giggling as he blushed. "You better watch all that talk, Mr. King," she said, still laughing. "I don't think you can handle me. Come on, let's do the end zone."

Most of the marching band started meeting at the beginning of August, and practiced a month before the first performance. The drumline put in extra hours beyond the horn players, and started a week earlier. But the colorguard had already met as a group four times in June and four times in July.

And now again this last week of July. Now in addition to long hours of tossing and twirling, they were finally starting the choreography for the show. Now was the time for the new freshmen to prove they could string all the moves together into a complex routine, to prove they could hit their skills again and again and again, no matter what.

Stacy Kensington remembered all too well what that had been like. Last year she'd been a mess of nerves. For a while, she had been sure they were going to kick her out of the guard, and she'd cried into her pillow more than once, waiting for it to happen.

But she had managed to work through it; by the end of the season she had even learned to nail her catches in the wind. Now back as a sophomore, she felt like a little bit of a veteran--just a little--and it was much easier to take the good with the bad.

Of course ... flags were one thing, rifles were something completely different.

"Back to one," yelled Aisha. "Stacy, please try to catch one of your tosses."

Stacy just nodded, trying to concentrate.

Aisha said, "Remember, don't try to grab it. You have to let it spin into your hands. Let the rifle do the work."

"Okay."

Stacy was a little afraid of the guard captain, who was also the rifle captain. Aisha Neybet was black, one of the few in the school, the only one in the band. Her skin wasn't just dark--it was in fact not a shade lighter than that of her African ancestors. But that wasn't what made her frightening.

Aisha was a local guard legend. While most of the girls stopped counting rotations in a rifle toss at five--for the type of high toss rarely used in a field show--she could throw sixes and sevens. There was a rumor that she had once thrown a solo eight.

Around her, Stacy just tried not to screw up.

"Everyone get set," said Aisha. The girls doing the rifle work lined up in two rows, and stood ready. ("Five, six, seven, eight," came the count off from the saber line across the gym.) Ignoring the other noise, she counted: "Five, six, seven, eight!"

Stacy counted out loud with the other girls: "One, two, three, four." A left-hand spin, a single toss.

"Five, six-and-seven, eight." A turn and duck, a pose.

"One-and-two, three, four." Another spin, moving to the right hand.

"Five, six, seven, eight." To the left hand, behind the back, another turn. Here came the hard part.

"One, two, three, four." Stand, ready, throw: a double, a catch, a single spin. Stacy could hardly believe she'd caught it! But no time for that yet...

"Five, six, seven, eight." Ready, throw: this one a triple. She watched it in the air, spinning. It came down, hit her palm ... missed the other, and spun out of her hands. Two other rifles fell, but so far Stacy was the only one to miss the catch every time through.

"One, two-and-three, four." Trying to keep track, she bent to pick it up. And ... a spin.

She couldn't get back on, but fortunately they were only doing thirty-two counts of the beginning. The counting stopped, and everyone stretched their sore fingers and massaged the bruises on their thumbs.

"Stacy," said Aisha, "I know you can make these catches. I've seen you do it before. You need to stop being distracted today."

"I know." A sigh.

"Whatever it is you're thinking about, it's the wrong thing. See it?" The guard captain held up her own rifle. "This is all that matters."

Stacy had been trying all morning to put last night's date out of her mind. It shouldn't have been hard. After all, Ian had only touched her briefly: once sharing some popcorn, and once to hold her hand at the very end of the movie. No hug, no kiss, barely more than a friendly night out. But she knew he had wanted to kiss her, and was holding back, and that made it exciting. And a lot harder to forget while she was trying to catch her rifle.

"Twice more, then we'll go back to flag work," said Aisha. "And you all better practice this set before tomorrow!" she added.

Maria Johns had her pit players set up in the band room while Josh took the battery outside. There weren't enough mallet instruments for nine players, but the marimbas were long enough for two to share. She had the others set up in a straight line--eight pairs of eyes looking back at her--while she faced them across her own xylophone.